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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27957098">mushrooms and Medievalism</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon'>boom_goes_the_canon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bickering, Canon Era, First Meetings, Getting Together, Hijinks &amp; Shenanigans, M/M, Misunderstandings, Recreational Drug Use, Romanticism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:41:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,104</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27957098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>By the end, Jehan is not demanding that they duel in the hallway or biting his ear off and starting a riot, so he considers that a success. He is scribbling furiously in his small journal, though, so he may be plotting a takedown of Combeferre in iambic pentameter. One can never tell with Romantics.</p><p>“I am keeping you,” Jehan announces suddenly. “You must show up at every single one of my parties. You will show off your knowledge to my ignorant friends, and I shall sit in the corner being one with nature and the universe. From time to time, our souls will commune.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bahorel &amp; Combeferre (Les Misérables), Bahorel &amp; Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre/Jean Prouvaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2020)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>mushrooms and Medievalism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolllly_Bee/gifts">Jolllly_Bee</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bahorel ends up introducing them, as is often the case. Bahorel knows every revolutionary group worth knowing in Paris; by consequence, he is in a lot of Romantic circles. He only invited Combeferre to win a wager for Most Inflammatory Dinner Guest, and that was only because Courfeyrac was not available.</p><p>“I fear you will be at a disadvantage,” Combeferre protests. “I don’t go spoiling for fights like you do. I prefer peace and quiet.”</p><p>“Nonsense. That’s what you say, you know, but you’re itching for it underneath the surface. I should know. There are going to be some people there who will be wrong in the most ridiculous ways.” Bahorel selects a grayer cravat to go with Combeferre’s plainest waistcoat. “Besides, you’re sensible. Reasonable. You will horrify them with talk of illness, of scalpels and intestines and…and…” Bahorel waves a hand in the air.</p><p>“…liver tumors?” Combeferre suggests.</p><p>“Right, right. Nothing sublime and eternal about liver tumors.”</p><p>-</p><p>Combeferre cannot take a step without running into a gaggle of badly-dressed Romantics, and this is not how he planned to spend the evening. Some of them are not even dressed at all, in a misguided attempt to become closer to Nature and Death and consumption all at once. Their host is a poet with completely inaccurate Medieval illumination sewn into his doublet, a small leather journal fastened across his chest like a bandolier, and a hat made entirely of paper and glue, topped with a replica of a cathedral spire, a well-preserved fossil, and what appears to be the horn of a cow. Combeferre assumes it is a metaphor.</p><p>True to Bahorel’s word, he’s already earned more than his share of glares, despite keeping his mouth shut at every possible point. It is not his fault that the conversation takes off in interesting, dangerous, and completely inaccurate directions.</p><p>“You’re doing great,” Bahorel says. He has broken out his reddest waistcoat for the occasion, a broad-lapeled Robespierre one that doesn’t seem to fit.</p><p>Combeferre winces and holds up his commonplace book. The party has bulked it out considerably, no matter how much he protests. “I believe I am officially an outcast.”</p><p>“As I said, doing great.”</p><p>-</p><p>It’s well into the night when their host finally approaches Combeferre, or more accurately, squeezes himself into the armchair beside Combeferre and drapes an arm around his shoulders.</p><p>“I see what you’re doing,” he says.</p><p>“Pardon me?”</p><p>“You’re doing a parody. A mockery. It’s a thankless task, you know.” The man pats his hand in sympathy. “Very clever, very clever; most of us only went for one layer of metaphor.”</p><p>Combeferre frantically shakes his head. The worst thing that could happen this evening is being mistaken for a full-blown Romantic. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”</p><p>“Ah, you’re doing it again! Pretending to be a boring old bourgeois man, idiocy and all. Though it would have been better if you had powdered your hair.” The man’s hat threatens to slip over his eyes and past his nose. If Combeferre had been forced to guess, it stays up only through sheer force of will and possibly the addition of a sublime hatpin. “I know, I know, terribly last century of me, but sometimes it just adds that extra touch.”</p><p>“I’m Combeferre,” he offers instead, before the man powders his hair.</p><p>“Jean Prouvaire, but you must call me Jehan or else we shall be sworn nemeses and I will duel you right in the corridor.” Jehan brandishes a butter knife in the air. “Don’t try me.”</p><p>“Charmed,” Combeferre says, because he is. He averts his eyes from whatever is going on with Jehan’s doublet and focuses instead on the bright gleam in his eyes.</p><p>“You have <em>opinions</em>,” Jehan says gleefully. “Out with them.”</p><p>“I don’t—”</p><p>“—have any opinions? Impossible. Tell me.”</p><p>Combeferre, resigned to making another enemy, starts on the inaccuracies of Medieval illumination and carefully, hesitantly, works his way up to mentioning the elaborate construction on Jehan’s hat. By the end, Jehan is not demanding that they duel in the hallway or biting his ear off and starting a riot, so he considers that a success. He is scribbling furiously in his small journal, though, so he may be plotting a takedown of Combeferre in iambic pentameter. One can never tell with Romantics.</p><p>“I am keeping you,” Jehan announces suddenly. “You must show up at every single one of my parties. You will show off your knowledge to my ignorant friends, and I shall sit in the corner being one with nature and the universe. From time to time, our souls will commune.”</p><p>“Sounds like a plan,” Combeferre says, trying and failing to hide his smile. “But unfortunately, I start my internship this year and my evenings are booked.”</p><p>“Alas, why must the stars never align for me.”</p><p>-</p><p>“I think you should try this,” Jehan announces, appearing out of nowhere and pressing a drink into Combeferre’s hands. “The man who sold me the mushrooms promised that anyone who tastes it would hear colors and taste music.”</p><p>“Does it work when extracted, I wonder?</p><p>Jehan shrugs. “I had some of them fried, and some of them made into tea, you know, and some of them made into wine. We cannot leave anyone out, after all. Equality in all things, that is my philosophy, Monsieur.” He smiles, threads his arm through Combeferre’s, and steals a sip from Combeferre’s cup. Warmth blooms in Combeferre’s chest. “You must sample them with me. As I said, I am keeping you, for tonight, if not for the next. You may call it ‘conducting experiments,’ if it pleases your cover story.”</p><p>“I’d like nothing more,” Combeferre says. “Please lead the way.”</p><p>-</p><p>“It is not fair,” Jehan says. His voice sounds like cyan, like the smell of incense, Combeferre decides. “It is completely, extremely, utterly unfair.”</p><p>“I don’t see the problem,” Combeferre says. His head is still spinning, but he is feeling quite pleasant, if he does say so himself. The sound of discordant harmonica playing has faded into salt and savor in his mouth. “Sometimes, people have differing reactions. You should ask a friend of a friend for his experiences with laughing gas.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, I know all about that, but what I do not understand is why I of all people should not be able to have this new and fascinating experience.” Jehan frowns once more at his cup, empty of mushroom tea, and sighs, all indigo and gloomy purple and sweet-sour-bitterness. “I have consumed far more than you,” he cries. “Why is it <em>not working</em>?”</p><p>“It’s working for me,” Combeferre points out, reasonably. The scritch of his pen against the pages of his commonplace book brings a scent like iodine and woodsmoke. “I am having a wonderful time.”</p><p>“I am cross with you now,” Jehan announces. “As such, I should, by all rights, be challenging you to a duel. You <em>insult</em> me.”</p><p>The sound of swords and pistols would probably smell amazing, Combeferre reasons. He nods fiercely.</p><p>“But I don’t wish to kill you, so I shan’t.”</p><p>“Aw,” Combeferre says.</p><p>“There, now we are both equally disappointed,” Jehan says. “Fair’s fair.”</p><p>“I never pegged you for a cruel man, Jean Prouvaire.”</p><p>“I must have my vengeance,” Jehan says, and drapes himself over Combeferre’s lap.</p><p>-</p><p>“You know, when I said I’m keeping you, I mean it.”</p><p>“Mm,” Combeferre says, because he is concentrating on not letting his feet melt into the floor.</p><p>“You must read to me, you know. It is the price I extract from you for fates betrayal of me in the mushroom affair.”</p><p>“Read what to you, may I ask?”</p><p>“You have a journal. I saw.” Jehan sighs, takes another pull at his pipe. “Read that.”</p><p>Combeferre fumbles for it. “It’s a commonplace book, by the way,” he says. “No poetry, or drafts of plays, or little dialogues in which the spirits of the wood argue with ghosts in the ruins of civilization.”</p><p>“Impossible.”</p><p>“I’m afraid it’s true.”</p><p>“Hmph,” Jehan says. “Read to me anyway.”</p><p>-</p><p>It is early morning when Combeferre finally manages to sneak back into his rooms. The porter glares at him, the neighbors shake their fists, and his roommate, after fixing one piercing eye on him, groans and does not remove his dissecting specimens from Combeferre’s bed.</p><p>Oh well. It wasn’t as though Combeferre was planning on sleeping anyway. There are books to read, stars to observe, early morning creature habits to record. That’s not even taking into account the way his head is spinning and how the slightest creak or chirp causes colors to burst like fireworks across his vision. No, no, sleep would be an absolute waste of time.</p><p>He reaches into his pocket for his commonplace book and, with a flash of lime green from the scraping sounds, pulls out a small leather journal instead. The signature inside is completely legible—unlike Combeferre’s—and bears a familiar name.</p><p>Oh no.</p><p><em>Oh no</em>.</p><p>-</p><p>It is late and Jehan is quite cross, despite the hashish he just consumed earlier. He’s been trying to find one of his sonnets, to exhibit for critique and praise to the inebriated people residing in his living room, but for some reason, the only things in his journal are anatomical sketches, illegible scribbles, and what appears to be Egyptian hieroglyphs. It’s all very interesting, if Jehan is being fair, but it is most certainly <em>not</em> poetry.</p><p>Come to think of it, his journal seems to have grown larger and heavier than when he last laid hands on it. It’s not even bound in leather.</p><p>“This isn’t my journal,” he says to Bahorel the next chance he gets, because it’s just like Bahorel to play pranks on him, just to see him riled up. Jehan would have appreciated it any other day. “Where is my journal?”</p><p>“I haven’t seen it.”</p><p>“Lies and slander. You’ve seen it plenty of times.”</p><p>Bahorel considers this. “I haven’t seen it <em>today</em>. Perhaps one of the guests carried it off. I’d be more than happy to punch them in the face for you, only I think you’ll do it yourself.”</p><p>“Of course I would. I have to defend my journal’s honor,” Jehan says. “We must mount an expedition to rescue it immediately.”</p><p>“Great,” Bahorel says, clasping Jehan on the shoulder and hauling himself up. He only sways a little, despite the amount of wine he’s had, and Jehan revisits his thoughts on Bahorel being a creature of myth and legend. “Where do we begin?”</p><p>-</p><p>“It could be destiny,” Jehan announces from astride Bahorel’s shoulders. He was not about to rescue his journal without a mount, of course, and after rejecting the choices of a frightened, shivering pony, a dandy-horse of a friend of a friend, and the neighbor’s large dog, Bahorel had offered himself.</p><p>“Sorry, couldn’t hear you.”</p><p>“I feel the tug of fate,” Jehan says, examining the streets for a likely journal-napper. The impostor journal is safely tucked within his clothes. “I believe that I and this person who has absconded with my journal are destined in some way, perhaps as mortal enemies or unlikely friends.”</p><p>“Mortal enemies most likely,” Bahorel says. “They did take your journal.”</p><p>“You took my journal when we met, by accident, you said.” Jehan feels obligated to remind him. “I only resented you for a week at <em>most</em>.”</p><p>Bahorel huffs and doesn’t say any more. Jehan <em>hopes</em> it is because the memory of shame overwhelms him and has struck him dumb from emotion and regret, but that does not seem to be the case.</p><p>They wander the streets a while, reveling in the hiss of wind and the gusts of rain. This, Jehan thinks, is how the world should be appreciated. Mysteries lurk in every corner, menacing and merciful and maddening all at once, and old ghosts haunt the hollow gaping mouths of houses, and lanterns and candles flicker and bow before the might of nature and the great beyond—</p><p>“—we should ask Combeferre,” Bahorel says, ruthlessly cutting through Jehan’s thoughts. Dimly, he is aware that they are both rather drenched. “That’s his commonplace book you got, and he’d be happy to have it back.”</p><p>“Onwards to Combeferre then,” Jehan says dreamily, despite the rain. It would be good to see the man, despite how nature had clearly favored him in the mushroom department.</p><p>-</p><p>The effects of the party have faded, and Combeferre is in the middle of a fascinating letter from one of his juniors in the medical school when something bounces off his window and skitters to a rest on the balcony.</p><p>“I don’t think he heard,” comes the loudest whisper he’s ever heard in his life. “Try a bigger rock.”</p><p>That could only be Bahorel. Combeferre runs to throw open the window before it ends up broken.</p><p>“Combeferre,” Bahorel yells, from below. He’s squinting up through the rain, and on his shoulders is a Jehan Prouvaire one would charitably describe as soaked. “A moment of your time.”</p><p>“Fine,” Combeferre says. “Out of the rain, both of you.”</p><p>“But Combeferre,” Jehan protests, and he makes a grab for the balcony railings. “The storm is beautiful.”</p><p>“You’ll catch your death.”</p><p>“Well, we’ll keep you in work, right?” Bahorel snorts.</p><p>Jehan just grins up at him, wild and crazed. “Oh, that would be lovely. Do you think it will be through consumption? I rather like my prospects.”</p><p><em>Romantics</em>, Combeferre thinks. Why did he ever associate with them? He pauses to rub his eyes. “Inside, if you please. And don’t drip water onto the carpet.”</p><p>They do drip water onto the carpet, when all is said and done, and Combeferre’s roommate mutters an astounding series of curses (which Bahorel returns with a jolly smile), but eventually, everyone is in dry clothes by the small fire, and Combeferre can finally dose them with preventative tisanes.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Bahorel insists, although his hands are clasped tight around the beaker Combeferre had given him. “It’ll take more than a sprinkling of rain to kill me.”</p><p>Jehan just hums, his eyes flickering from the dismembered corpse in Combeferre’s bed to the specimens he has mounted on the opposite wall. “You <em>are</em> a Romantic. Bahorel wouldn’t believe me, you know, but this proves it. You even have a balcony.”</p><p>“Um,” Combeferre says, eloquently.</p><p>“You are now one of us,” Jehan says solemnly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You will swear fealty to the cause under the most binding of oaths, and you will be forever bound to us in body and soul, until the inexorable march of time grinds our very bones to dust.”</p><p>“And while we’re on the subject, we have something of yours.” Bahorel prods Jehan in the side, who slaps him. “Give the man the commonplace book before his head explodes from too much knowledge.”</p><p>“Oh, yes.” Jehan digs in his doublet and brings out—inexplicably dry—Combeferre’s commonplace book, not even a little worse for wear. “Now, we were hoping that you might have noticed something at the party.”</p><p>“Noticed?”</p><p>“Yes, some scoundrel has stolen my poetry journal and we were hoping you noticed someone acting suspicious.”</p><p>“…that would be me.”</p><p>“Tish-tosh,” Prouvaire says. “Except for the mushroom incident, you appear to be an upstanding individual.”</p><p>“Yes, but I…er, fell into crime by accident. I mistook it for mine, you see, and by the time I realized it, I was already here.” Combeferre fumbles for words and the journal.</p><p>“I have to use that excuse sometime,” Bahorel mutters. “Fell into crime by accident. You can do better than <em>that</em>.” Combeferre ignores him.</p><p>“Forgive me,” he says instead, holding out the journal. “I would have returned it this afternoon at the <em>latest</em>.”</p><p>Jehan grabs it and cradles it to his chest. “Of all the betrayals I have ever experienced, this is the most heart-rending,” he declares.</p><p>“Hey,” Bahorel says, somehow managing to look offended as he lounges all over Combeferre’s desk and the skeleton he is supposed to return on Monday.</p><p>“Hush, Bahorel,” Jehan says, patting him on the arm. “Yours was simply a passing memory of betrayal, and I have forgiven you for the waistcoat.”</p><p>“I resent that.”</p><p>“Hush, I am scolding Combeferre.” Jehan shakes himself, and stares. “Um, where was I?”</p><p>“Heart-rending betrayal and so forth,” Combeferre says, promptly. Jehan looks grateful, before rearranging his face into something more like anger.</p><p>“As I was saying,” Jehan continues, knitting his brows together with effort. “I am shocked to my core. Nay, to the very depths of my soul. I thought we were kindred spirits.” He buries his head in his arms and lets out something akin to a wail, if it wasn’t followed with vague hiccupping sounds.</p><p>“You also took my commonplace book, though. I think that counts as a strike against you.”</p><p>Jehan raises his head, his face all tragic and pale and despondent. “Oh no.”</p><p>“Oh, yes,” Bahorel says.</p><p>“As such, I believe that we have both insulted each other deeply, and with equal strength,” Combeferre continues, warming to his subject. “Due to this grievous injury that we have both done to the other without malice or foresight, I propose an alternative solution.”</p><p>“You’re going to call it even, aren’t you?” Bahorel says. “I hate it when you do that.”</p><p>“Let both of us embark on an adventure, to mend our trust in each other. We’ll climb rooftops for birds’ nests, wade in swamps for butterflies and moths, and—and—”</p><p>“—of course!” Jehan says, and he flings himself across the room.</p><p>-</p><p>“Unbelievable,” Bahorel says. “Absolutely unbelievable.”</p><p>“It is true,” Jehan insists.</p><p>“I bring my friend to a party with the intention of winning a bet, and not only do I not get my money back, but I find that you’ve seduced said friend—”</p><p>“—excuse me, I did not set out to seduce anyone—”</p><p>“—<em>seduced</em> said friend, and now you are running off into nature <em>again</em> to hunt for ghosts and ghouls and vampires—”</p><p>“—werewolves too. Don’t forget the werewolves.”</p><p>“I have not, I was going in alphabetical order, Jehan, I would have gotten to them.”</p><p>“You would not have. And anyway, we’re going to see trains across the countryside, not to look for mythical creatures.”</p><p>“I never would have expected it of you.”</p><p>Red creeps into Jehan’s face and he swats irritably at Bahorel’s shoulder. “You mind your own business.”</p><p>“Everything is my business.”</p><p>“Hush, you brute, and help me pack. Do you think I should bring the hat with the yellow feathers or the peacock ones?”</p><p>“Both of them, Anyway, I should get some of the credit at least. I introduced you two after all—”</p><p>“Hush, Bahorel. Get my other suitcase.”</p>
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